


X Marks the Spot

by calrissian18



Series: Mating Games: Round 2 [11]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Time Travel, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1834696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is standing in an ‘x’ made of runes, the glow fading rapidly, and he doesn’t recognize this particular patch of earth at all.  <i>Of-fucking-course</i>.</p>
<p>Written for mating_games Main Challenge 6: Fandom Tropes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	X Marks the Spot

Stiles is standing in an ‘x’ made of runes, the glow fading rapidly, and he doesn’t recognize this particular patch of earth at all.

_Of-fucking-course_.

* * *

He’s gone thirteen years in the wrong direction according to the hunting signs posted all around him.  Brilliant.  There’s a hole in his shoe near the heel because he hadn’t expected to be hoofing it through a goddamn forest when he’d woken up that morning.

He finds a road, sticks out a thumb.  There’s a rock in his shoe and he’s sweating like he’s got a glandular issue by the time a pick-up pulls over.  A dark-skinned guy with incredibly white teeth leans across the console to ask, “Where you going?” 

Stiles shrugs.  “In the direction of red meat, which I figure I can get no matter which compass point you’re chasing.” 

The guy squints, shrugs back, opens the door for him. 

They stop at the third burger joint they pass.  Stiles doesn’t have his wallet on him—of course—and the guy—the ‘A.J. works’ guy—sticks a fry in his face and declares, “I don’t think I’m going to like you.”

Which Stiles decides is mostly fair.  He’s already—accidentally, it should be noted—scammed him out of gas and seven bucks worth of burger and fries.  Still, he feels compelled to say, “You should definitely wait to get to know me to dislike me, fair shake and all.” 

A.J. grins, leg bent at the knee and up on the booth next to him.  He kind of  _s_ _prawls_.  The way he tends to sit with his legs open makes Stiles think about his dick.

A lot.

He thinks it’s malicious because the guy  _has_  to know it.

* * *

They stop at a motel when the sun starts to set.  A.J. says that since he’s ‘paying for this shit’ he’s not springing for an extra room or two twins. 

Stiles shrugs, doesn’t ask questions even though he wants to.  He knows why  _he’s_  nomadic.  His home doesn’t even  _exist_  yet, but A.J. is more of an enigma.

A.J. takes the shower, walks back out wet – his slight fro with water droplets clinging to it, and Stiles catches a glimpse of his back.  Black ink covers it, runes that Stiles recognizes, that he knows are real are etched into his dark skin.  It’s fucking hot and Stiles should be booking it as fast as he can in the other direction, instead he licks his lower lip and isn’t subtle about spreading his legs.

A.J. notices, likes it if the look in his eyes is any indication, and drops the towel.  Stiles wants to drop right with it because that is a dick that deserves to be  _sucked_.

Instead he shifts his hips up off the dresser, asks with a smirk, “Disliking me doesn’t stop you wanting to get a hand down my pants?”

A.J. taps his temple.  “My mind has standards.  My dick, however.”  He trails off with a white grin in his dark face and he’s as hard as Stiles is.

* * *

He smokes something after.  Heroin maybe.  Doesn’t offer Stiles any and Stiles stretches out on the bed, muscles rippling, sore in all the right places.  He’s traveling with a guy who’s clearly bent on self-destruction, nothing more than a bomb waiting to explode.

Stiles decides to enjoy it for as long as he can.

* * *

They order the greasiest looking pizza in the book and A.J.’s shaving in the bathroom when it arrives, hollers for Stiles to get money out of his wallet.  Stiles does, catches sight of the driver’s license and falls back a step, the twenty dropping to the floor.  The delivery guy shoves the pizza at him, snatches up the bill with some angry muttering.  Stiles lets out a disbelieving little laugh.  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

A.J. walks out, smoothing a hand over his chin, wraps the other around Stiles’ waist.  “Problem?”

Stiles shakes his head, puts the wallet down, closes the flap over the name:

_Alan Jay Deaton_. 

A.J.— _Deaton_ —fucks him again after the pizza’s gone, mouth greasy and eyes eager.

* * *

Stiles wakes up on Deaton’s exam table.  Deaton’s there, staring down at a clipboard and he pretends not to care when he notices Stiles is awake.  
  
Stiles feels groggy and his voice sticks.  “A.J.?” he says, wanting or accusing or— _something_.  
  
Deaton’s mouth curves into a familiar smirk.  “Stiles,” he answers.  
  
Stiles returns it.  “You’re a damn, dirty liar.  You liked me just fine.”  
  
Deaton laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> oh yeah, there's also this [thing](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/).


End file.
